Grade 11
by Eve Davidson
Summary: Craig rants about being bipolar.


Grade 11

I couldn't believe how things were falling apart. I thought things had been bad when I lived with my dad and he beat me all the time. I thought I had it rough. I had no idea.

Being bipolar is worse than getting beat. And I know trauma before the age of 18 can trigger a mental illness, or cause it to occur earlier. They've told me they think this might be true, psychiatrists and social workers and all these people. So maybe if I'd had a normal life this wouldn't have happened, maybe. And I can't help wishing for that, wishing this away, living in a past that never occurred, a past where my parents were loving and supportive. My parents are dead, but before they died they were both, both, I don't know. I don't know how to describe it. I guess they weren't what I needed.

When I lived with my dad, the thing is, I was so normal. It wasn't a great situation, I know that. I know I was upset all the time, and in pain, and scared. I know how it was living with an abusive parent, but my thoughts were normal. Not like now. It wasn't this roller coaster of moods and emotions. My thoughts now, the way I think, it is so fucked up. And I know Kurt Cobain was bipolar, maybe, Ellie said he was. Whatever. He killed himself and a bunch of other bipolar people have killed themselves. It's a risk factor for suicide, and every time I'm in the hospital they ask me if I want to hurt myself. And maybe I do. Maybe it's painful feeling so high and then so low, like being stretched out like taffy, my emotional landscape this kaleidoscope of colors and lights, strobe lights flashing.

Ashley can't deal with it. I can see it. I can see how cautious she is around me, and I hate that. I wish she could just treat me like she used to, like her normal boyfriend. Instead it's like she's always watching, like the nurses and doctors in the hospital, always monitoring, asking me about my medication and moods. She reads a little bit about bipolar and thinks she knows everything. She doesn't know anything. Like that time she said the new med could cause mood swings. I gritted my teeth and balled my hands into fists. She can make me feel so…I don't know. Damaged.

And Joey, Joey is driving me crazy. Well, I guess I'm crazy already. He's bugging me. He always looks kind of sad, and I guess I would be too if my step-son was a nut. He's kind of treating me like I'm five instead of 16. I can't go anywhere without him knowing, without him asking if I took all the medication, without him reminding me of doctor appointments and clinics and groups.

I feel like I'm all these labels. Abused. Bipolar. Where am I in all of this? I feel like I don't really matter anymore, I'm just these screwed up reactions and wrong brain chemistry and mood swings. Whoever I was is gone, and I'm just supposed to go to all the groups and take all the medication that they shove at me.

The medication, there's another thing. Lithium works best but they don't like to use it unless nothing else works since it is totally kidney toxic, and you kind of need your kidneys. After decades of being on it the kidneys give out. But all the meds have side effects, and they're all harmful in some way or another, but that's just too bad since without it I'm so manic it's not even funny. Manic and psycho and violent. I hit Joey, I actually hit him, and I feel so bad. I know, I mean, I know how I felt with my dad hitting me and now I've hurt him like that, I'm as bad as my father. But the meds, the side effects, they're awful. Some cause low blood pressure and some cause drooling and some cause something called EPS, which means you make these involuntary muscle movements like chewing or shaking and it never goes away. That would be great. That would just let everyone know what a freak I am.

So yeah, instead of being crazy I'd rather still be living with my father and getting hit almost every day, like before. Getting the shit kicked out of me. Getting thrown against walls and thrown to the floor, crashing my head on the cement floor, having concussions and pissing blood again and seeing all of those deep black and purple bruises all over my body. At least I could think straight. At least I was somewhat calm, compared to how I am now. I know I was a wreck back then, feeling this low level of anxiety and flinching away from every sudden movement and doubting everything I did and never knowing what would set my dad off. But still, it was better than now. Now I can't get a hold of my thoughts, I can't stop this weird energy that lifts me up like a wave, like a tsunami. I'd give anything to have myself back.


End file.
